


look down, javert

by SerpentineJ



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Seine, and all the things post-seine entails, isn't a post-seine fic like a longfic rite of passage for this ship...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 12:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: His eyes are barely fast enough to catch the shadow of a figure, balanced precariously on a parapet. He starts to open his mouth, to call out, and he thinks he sees a flash of moonlight glinting off a silver button before the shadow wobbles, straightens, faces the gaping darkness- and pitches itself off the edge.Or: Valjean saves Javert from the waters of the Seine, but he doesn't know it's Javert when he does.





	1. part i. the man of mercy

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: as a rule, I usually don't post fic that I haven't finished bc my track record with wips is horrendous, but I've got a decent amount written already, so I'll definitely finish it. Will probably be 4 chapters.

Jean Valjean is tired.

He's returning to the Seine, seeking Javert, who hadn't been waiting when he had emerged, still stinking and filth-crusted, from the Pontmercy residence, shoulders aching but lighter now without the weight of the boy on his back. He rakes his gaze along from the area where he had emerged from the sewer to the beginning of the bridge, to-

His eyes are barely fast enough to catch the shadow of a figure, balanced precariously on a parapet. He starts to open his mouth, to call out, and he thinks he sees a flash of moonlight glinting off a silver button before the shadow wobbles, straightens, faces the gaping darkness- and pitches itself off the edge.

Valjean shouts and, without a thought, sprints to the edge of the stone barrier. He catches the back-glance of that dark figure falling into the river, headed towards missing the concrete ridges that jut from the cloudy, dark water and force it to break over them like pale, sullied whitecaps by a meter. He hauls himself over the parapet with less than a motion, and falls into the river.

There's the cold and the stink of the Paris sewage and the river air biting sharply at his face as he falls, and as the water soaks instantly into his clothes and tears the dried sludge from it, chilling him to the bone and reminding him, unbidden, of days spent at the Toulon shipyard, hauling rope and lifting masts under the careful eye of the ruthless prison guard, he grits his teeth. There's no time to think. He forces his eyes open and, ignoring the nagging voice that says he's just sealed his own fate, jumping into the deadly waters of the Seine to save someone who had presumably wanted to die in the first place, searches frantically for any hint of a black mass in the muddy river. The current tosses him about, and if he were any less of a strong swimmer, he knows, he'd be dead.   
His hand brushes a hint of rough wool. He almost mistakens it for a rock or debris, and wonders if he'll be battered to death by the contents of the Seine, before seeing a sodden black lump approach from his side, and he grabs on like it's his life depends on it, not the mysterious figure's, and hauls for shore.

By the time he feels the slipperiness of silt under his toes- and he's never been so glad to feel dirt- his entire body is exhausted and numb. He doesn't know how much longer he could have lasted. Valjean, with the last of his strength, heaves the heavy, soaking body in his charge onto land and collapses beside it, ignoring the garbage and filth surrounding them, panting heavily. It's hardly the most disgusting thing he's done today, he thinks, but he's so tired already from hauling the Pontmercy boy through the sewers. He may not walk for a week.

Ah. He remembers. It's not up to him when he walks, anymore. He still needs to find Javert, and he groans at the idea.

Valjean rolls over and props himself up to look at the prone form of the person he had, hopefully, saved.

A glint of muddied silver catches his eye.

No.

It can't be-

Javert's whiskers assure him that it is, in fact, the Inspector who he has saved from the river.

"You have to be joking," Valjean breathes, reaching out with one arm that feels like jelly to shakily try and take the Inspector's pulse. He's barely breathing. The man's heartbeat flutters weakly against his damp fingertips. Javert's skin is pale and clammy.

Valjean rests for another moment, then drags himself to his feet.

Javert is heavier than Marius Pontmercy, and Valjean doesn't know how he makes it back to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, but he does.

~~~~~~

"Papa," Cosette gasps, when she comes to wake him in the morning and sees the pile of damp clothing- he'd stripped himself and Javert of their sodden clothing, ignored the pale scars that marred both their skin, examined Javert's body for any obvious injuries and grimaced when he'd redressed them in his own clean garments, because a lot of good dragging him from the river would do if the man died of hypothermia- "what in the world-"

"Cosette, dear child," Valjean groans, laid on the floor of his bedroom where he had slept after depositing Javert into his bed, "please, could you fix breakfast today?"

Cosette gives him a look- something she'd learned from a schoolteacher at the convent, something like a mixture between concern and a demand for an explanation- before hurrying off, yellow dress swishing around her ankles. He hears a clattering from the kitchen and silently thanks God that she hadn't pressed the issue, at least not at the moment.

When she returns, it's with a plate of her favorite foods- he snorts and sits up, groaning at the stiffness of his muscles. It feels like a morning at Toulon, except worse, because he's not quite that young anymore. He eyes Javert, still unconscious in his bed. He wonders if the man is going to wake up. In the morning light, though, in dry clothes and with none of the dark creases that hang upon his features in waking, his complexion looks better than it had when he had first pulled him from the river, in the light of the moon, pale and chill and drained.

He's still breathing, at least. God knows what injury's been done to the man's body. Valjean can't imagine anyone surviving a leap into the Seine without breaking a few bones.

"Papa," Cosette says again, more insistent now that Valjean's shown himself to uninjured apart from a soreness that encompasses his entire body, "what on Earth is going on?"

"He fell." Valjean mutters. "Into the river. The stubborn man."

Cosette covers her mouth in surprise.

"Into the river?" She says. "Papa, you-"

"It is unimportant." Valjean cuts her off, which is not something he usually does, because he adores the words that fall from his beloved daughter's lips. Unless she's asking about his past. "Cosette, fetch the doctor- tell him there's an emergency, please."

Cosette obeys, pulling her skirts around her. He's going to have to answer her questions eventually, Valjean knows, and the idea sends a tendril of dread curling into the pit of his stomach.

~~~~~~

The doctor is optimistic.

"He's broken his clavicle, a handful of ribs, and his femur, and both his upper and lower arm on one side," he says, and Valjean knows it's the right side, the side on which he had landed in the water, "but there appears to be no serious internal bleeding," he opens Javert's closed eyelids and watches the pupil react to the light, "and he's not brain-dead, at least."

Valjean isn't surprised. Javert is a muleheaded man. 

The doctor pauses.

"Was he moved a great distance before he came to be here?" He asks, examining Javert's twisted limbs. Valjean had tried to set him to rights as much as he could before he had collapsed. "It's good that you called me here as soon as possible, because in a few days the cartilage will begin to set and we would have to re-break the bone," he continues, not seeing Valjean's grimace, "but as it stands, it looks like the worst the man will sustain is heavy bruising and broken bones."

"No organ damage?" Valjean says, a wave of relief flooding him.

"The man is lucky to not have suffered a spinal or pelvic fracture, especially at his age," the doctor says disapprovingly, pursing his lips, some of the optimism fading from his face, "and I can tell you that if he had, he would not be breathing now. I cannot say whether the man has suffered a grievous head injury or not without him being awake."

Valjean frowns.

"Call me if- or, ah, when- he wakes," the doctor finishes, packing his implements in his clamshell bag, "and here is laudanum and a jar of salve for his injuries, to be re-applied every day as long as he keeps the bandages on. If he wakes," he looks Valjean directly in the eyes, now, "do not allow him to move."

~~~~~~

Two days pass. Valjean alternates between tending to the Inspector who he once would have done much to be rid of and resting himself. He remembers the man's dark, vicious eyes when he had goaded Valjean to slit his throat, remembers the way his hand had trembled around the grip of his gun when Valjean had emerged from the sewer with the Pontmercy boy's weight slung over his shoulder, remembers his disappearance when by all rights he should have been gleefully slapping chains around Valjean's wrists.

Javert is near a decade younger than him. It makes him feel strangely. This man has had years less on this Earth than Valjean himself, yet he had been the one to pitch himself over the parapet. Such dedication is surely unnatural.

"Papa." Cosette says, voice sweet as always. "You ought to rest."

She leads him to her bed and lays him down and refuses to leave until he is secured tightly under her blankets with a promise to not move and allow her to manage by herself for at least a day, Papa, she's almost an adult, and he feels a pang of painful fondness at the idea of her going off to live with a boy named Pontmercy. 

It doesn't take long for his mind to begin to drowse. He sleeps.

~~~~~~

When he wakes, it is dark.

The moonlight is muted through the curtained window of the room- Cosette's room, he remembers, and feels guilt at having taken her bed for longer than he had intended, and hopes she hadn't taken up on the couch- he throws off the covers and gets wearily to his feet, pulling at his cuffs and his collar in an unconscious motion to ensure the scars of the galley-slave are still covered.

"Cosette," he whispers when he sees the light still on in the kitchen. "Cosette, child, are you-"

He hears voices.

His muscles automatically tense.

"-and Papa must have come in in the midst of the night, because he was laid out on the floor and you were up in his bed and both your sodden clothes were reeking of sewage, and I've tried to save your uniform, sir, but I think they're both beyond repair, being so saturated with the river and the dirt caked on them, and he's called you muleheaded and stubborn, which are words I've never heard him use with anyone-"

"Cosette!" Valjean bursts through the door to his own bedroom, and stops in shock when he sees none other than Javert, sitting upright, the soft collar of one of Valjean's sleep shirts open at his neck where endless bandages swathe his collarbone and, Valjean knows, under the blanket, his torso and his arm wrapped in the cloth sling and the leg he ought not move.

Cosette looks at him.

"Papa," she says, "you owe me quite an explanation, you know, how ever did you come to pulling a man out of the Seine, both of you dressed in military uniform, absolutely covered in dirt-"

"Cosette," Valjean breathes, "if you would, please, fetch some- tea, or-"

Cosette blinks.

"Of course," she says, glancing at Javert's face, which is blocked from Valjean's view, setting aside her quest for answers and standing, brushing her skirts. 

She departs.

There's silence.

"So-" Valjean starts-

"Valjean-" Javert begins at the same time.

Both of them fall silent again. Javert is scowling.

"How are you feeling?" Valjean tries, taking Cosette's seat.

Javert purses his lips. His voice is still thick and slow.

"You damned devil," he says, and Valjean's not quite sure, but that's not the reaction someone's supposed to have upon learning their life has been saved. "You can't even let me have this, you-"

He devolves into a fit of coughing. Valjean locates a cup of water that Cosette must have brought to him, half-empty, and leans forward to raise it to Javert's lips. His gaze flicks from it to Valjean's face, and he clenches his jaw and turns his head away.

"Come now, Javert," he says, exasperatedly, "don't be so stubborn, it took a great deal of effort to carry you from the Seine-"

"I wish you hadn't," Javert spits, eyes black. "You and your irrational, foolish martyrdom- what difference does it make to you if I die- I will not live in your debt-"

The man is incomprehensible, raving mad. There's a wild glint in his eye. Valjean sets the water down, within Javert's reach. 

"I told you," he says, "you owe me nothing, Inspector-"

"Don't call me that," Javert hisses, radiating fury. "An Inspector I am no longer."

Valjean blinks. 

"What happened?" He asks, because the idea of Javert without his authority is so strange, like a tiger without its stripes or a peacock without its grand, sweeping colors- without the fearsome fleur-de-lis, the shades of blue and white and red adorning him, here, battered and angry and unable to do even basic tasks without assistance, he is only a man. It is like the feeling he had gotten when Javert had glared up at him, eyes dark, wrists bound before him, the glint of a blade shining in Valjean's hand-

"I resigned." Javert mutters. "A lot of good an Inspector is who can't arrest a simple parole-breaker, really-"

Valjean purses his lips.

"I said I would go with you," he says. "I would turn myself in willingly, Javert-"

"It is not that!" Javert roars, raises his voice suddenly, meeting Valjean's eyes, snarling like a rabid dog, and this is the most unhinged Valjean has ever seen the man, even beaten and bloody and with a noose around his neck and a gun at his head. "Valjean- 2460- Jesus, help me, I cannot even speak that number anymore-"

Again, he hacks a cough, throat rough. It must wreak terrible pain on his broken ribs.

Valjean waits for Javert to regain his voice and his thoughts.

"You've killed me," the man says, helpless and angry, "Jean Valjean, I live and breathe as a dead man because of you, because of what you've done to me," he barks a laugh, a soulless and terrible sound, "the fearsome Javert, reduced to a snake without its fangs, my world destroyed and my mind in tatters, the most fitting revenge for a convict-"

Valjean reaches out to press a hand to Javert's shaking shoulder. The man freezes under his touch.

"Javert," he says, voice soft. Not tender, exactly, because he can't forget the glare of the man's eyes on his hunched, ragged form, but low and gentle but commanding enough to force the man to meet his eyes. He channels a hint of the mayor he was, years ago, in the face of the same man who had been so dedicated to his duty. "Save the talk of revenge and spite. Please, just for now, rest."

Javert stares at him, and there's something wild and lost and unrestrained in his eyes, and the moment hangs between them, suspended heavy in the air until Cosette returns with a tea-tray laden with all her favorite snacks and three steaming cups of tea. Javert's hostility seems to seep out of him a bit when Cosette's gaze turns to him. Valjean wonders if he, too, can see Fantine's echo in the curve of her jaw or the set of her cheekbones. Javert helplessly allows Cosette to lift a teacup to his lips. He seems at a loss.

~~~~~~

Javert, as it turns out, has not said anything to Cosette of the things that he knows, intimately, of Valjean's past, and though the man had been his jailer and it would have been entirely within his right, Valjean can't help but feel relief, and a stab of gratefulness to him. Isn't that absurd? That he should feel grateful to the one who enforced the penalties he's borne? And yet.

Cosette clears the tea-things away. Valjean doesn't know what time it is- only that it's late, and far past the time she should be awake and tending to two old men- so he shoos her into bed before the sun can take them by surprise by chasing away the moon and peeking inquisitively through the windows.

He sits back down at Javert's bedside.

"She is-" Javert starts, then stops. He seems to consider the words in his mouth, tasting them on his tongue, feeling their shape against his teeth.

Valjean inclines his head.

"Yes," he says, knowing what Javert had meant.

Javert is quiet for a moment. It's a far cry from his earlier rage.

"She seems well," he says after a while. His voice has a tint of something else.

Valjean looks at him.

"You should know better than anyone," he replies, "that one's destiny is in one's own hands, not shackled by the fates of one's parentage."

Javert stiffens. Valjean wonders if he's gone too far, then wonders why he should worry about offending Javert.

"Her mother's death is on my hands," he murmurs, voice low. "She knows not who I am."

Valjean smiles grimly.

"We are in the same boat there, Javert," he says, "though I was fully prepared for you to parade me around the town with the chains around my neck once you'd caught me."

Javert looks at him oddly. For a moment, Valjean feels like M. Madeline again, with Javert watching him, mixed expressions of suspicion and duty-bound respect warring on his features.

~~~~~~

Soon, Valjean is well enough to run errands. He has sustained no grievous injury. He shops for groceries and makes meals and watches the house while Toussaint accompanies Cosette to the Pontmercy residence to look in on the young, fever-stricken Marius. Valjean has not returned to the Pontmercy residence since he had deposited the sewer-soaked boy in the arms of a sleepy porter for fear of recognition, even though he knows chances of anyone associating him with the ragged, filth-crusted figure who had appeared on their doorstep are low. It's not as if everyone can be Javert.

He taps on the door to his own bedchamber and, hearing no answer, pushes it open. Javert is not asleep.

"Valjean," he says, curt. As it happens, Javert likes resting for extended periods of time very little, and doctor-enforced bed-confinement even less. Valjean can't say he's surprised.

"Javert." Valjean sits in that same chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Why did you save me?" Javert ignores his polite question, scowling. The glare is black on his face. 

Valjean purses his lips. He doesn't have an answer, so he holds a cup of tea up to Javert's elbow instead.

"You fool," Javert hisses, eyes flicking to the drink and back to Valjean's face, "you martyred ninny-"

Valjean laughs, not unkindly.

"Honestly, Javert," he says, because it seems easy to meet the other man's vitriol with a slight smile, "I did not even know it was you who was standing upon the parapet- I caught only the shadow of your coat disappearing over the edge."

Javert stares incredulously at him.

"You," he says, "you, Valjean, you threw yourself into the Seine for- for someone you did not know? Someone who could have been of any character, any persuasion, any kind of scum-"

He takes a shuddering breath, and his throat sounds rough and torn. There are so many layers to the voice Javert uses now. 

Valjean looks away.

"If I recall, I was already sentenced to be taken to shackles by you," he replies, voice softer, "and Cosette has no need of me, now, really, not with the Pontmercy boy- if I could trade this hunted life of mine for another's, why should I not?"

Javert seems to be glaring at him. Valjean cannot comprehend what he has said that warrants such a fierce look. Then, in a sharp movement, he turns his head away.

"Your life is hunted no longer," he mutters, grinding his teeth, "at least not by me- Valjean, you devil, you've cowed me so thoroughly, brought me so obediently to heel I may feel sick-"

Valjean sighs.

"Inspector," he says, using the other man's now-former title intentionally. "I have told you, you owe me nothing."

"And yet I find you have saved my life two times over." Javert bites.

Valjean has no response for that. They sit in silence. Javert will not drink the tea.

~~~~~~

It appears Cosette is the only hope of getting Javert anywhere close to recovery.

"What?" She says when he asks if she has an idea on how to force that ridiculous stone of a man to eat and drink. "He takes from my hand readily enough, though he always has the queerest expression on his brow when he does."

Valjean pauses.

"He will eat?" He asks.

"Yes," she asks, puzzled, cocking her head at him, "Papa, what is it that you are not telling me? To appear in the mid of the night with a man over your shoulder, who appears to be neither friend nor ally, if the way he refuses your every entreaty of friendship is any way to judge by?"

Valjean pinches his lips.

"Cosette, you know I cannot-" he begins. Cosette frowns at him.

"Your mysterious past and mysterious companion," she says, and she's too smart to not have made the connection, "I find it absurd that you cannot confide in me."

The conversation lulls awkwardly. After a moment, Cosette sighs and declares she will ask after their guest's comfort again, and isn't it a good thing that Toussaint is out getting groceries for supper, because she would be even more cross with Valjean than Cosette can manage.

~~~~~~

"Arm up," Valjean says, leaning over Javert, a bundle of cloth bandage in his hand to replace the ones swathed around the other man's chest. "The doctor says your bandages need changing every day, and it is probably a good thing you are not expected at the police station, because your injuries won't heal for a good two months at least-"

"You should leave me be," Javert replies, voice low, but less vitriolic. He seems to have lost some of his rage and resigned himself to his fate of being nursed back to health, as absurd as it sounds, by Valjean.

Nonetheless, he raises his good arm, and Valjean cuts the existing bandage off of him- there's a brief flash of remembrance of another time he had held a blade in front of Javert, and cut his martingale and set him free- before inspecting the purple-green bruising. 

"Would you like to wash?" He asks, already getting up to fetch a basin.

"I can do it myself," Javert growls, seeming embarrassed at the thought of submitting to a former convict's touch- it can't be embarrassment over a lack of clothing, because Valjean has seen him undressed multiple times by now, though he had always been unconscious from injury or exhaustion, and he had watched Valjean in Toulon for years. Surely, after that, there is nothing that could provoke embarrassment.

Valjean shrugs. He goes to the kitchen to fill a basin with warm water and leaves it in the washroom along with a set of washcloths, and returns to his bedroom to help Javert out of bed. The man groans in pain when he wraps his arm around his torso, trying not to jostle the fractured ribs too much. He leaves Javert to wash.

~~~~~~

"Why did you save me?" Javert asks again, the next week, voice still rough- from sleep or from injury, Valjean doesn't know- as has become his custom whenever Valjean checks on him in the mornings. Today, like all the other days, he has no suitable, all-encompassing answer.

Valjean pauses. 

"I needed a wash," Valjean tries, a half-smile curling his lip, and Javert makes a strangled noise that just might have been a half-choked laugh before wrangling himself back into silence.

Valjean considers it a victory, and sets a bowl of soup on Javert's bedside before settling down in the chair next to it.

"Hungry?" He asks, and Javert scoffs.


	2. part ii. a world that's full of happiness (that i have never known)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: '78 is the only les mis non musical movie adaptation worth watching.... great casting + no weird implications that valjean is romantically in love with cosette which happens in like every other film??? gross.. on the other hand I LOVE PERKINS JAVERT

Valjean walks up to the door to his bedchambers, where Javert is still resting, two weeks later, and pauses at the door. There's the sounds of soft voices coming from inside, muted by the door.

"My father will be so upset with me if he heard me asking questions like these," Cosette's voice, "but sir, I find myself absolutely consumed by curiosity about his past- he treats me as though I am still a child, truly, is there any story you could tell me of his life?"

There's a pause, and Valjean holds his breath. He could walk in right now, but the strangest feeling holds him back, stills his footsteps. What will Javert say in response to an inquiry like that?

Javert clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is still low.

"Your father," he says, "once was the- ah- overseer of a warehouse. In a town called Montreuil-sur-Mer."

"An overseer?" Cosette murmurs, perplexed. "I have often wondered where our livelihood comes from. Papa is so close-lipped about his work, and though we live frugally, I have never seen him properly go to work, despite all the alms we dispense-"

"Of course." Javert mutters, seemingly to himself, though Cosette falls silent. The sound of his voice barely carries to the door, where Valjean is standing so incriminatingly silently. "The beggar who gives alms, truly."

Cosette has the sound to her voice that makes Valjean think her brows are drawn together sharply in thought, a twist to her lips as she considers new knowledge. 

"I have," she begins hesitantly, "wondered, on occasion, whether Ultime Fauchelevent is my father's real name."

Valjean freezes.

Javert, on the other hand, explodes into noise. He barks a laugh, then another, the harsh sounds tumbling from his throat, squeezed from his aching , painful lungs.

"Oh, monsieur, you mustn't jostle yourself, your injuries-" There's a rustling of fabric, maybe Cosette's skirts as she gets up to settle Javert back into bed, and Javert's laughter stops and is replaced by a guilty silence. Valjean can guess what he's thinking now- another bed, another patient, their positions reversed, and the vindictive twist of his lips as he had delivered the words that had proven to be Fantine's fatal blow.

Now, though, he knocks. A sharp intake of breath in Cosette's pitch comes from the other side of the door, and he pushes it open.

"Cosette?" He asks, pretending he hasn't been listening.

"I only came to check on our guest, Papa," Cosette says, gathering her skirts and offering the chair beside Javert's bed to him, "but oh, I find it's almost time to call upon the Pontmercys again, I must go-"

"You'll be alright with Toussaint?" He asks, as he asks every time, and Cosette leans up to kiss him on the cheek and brush an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder before smiling with all the warmth of the sun.

"Of course," she says, bustling out of the room. She shuts it behind her.

Valjean turns to Javert.

"An overseer?" He asks, a slant to his lips. 

Javert frowns.

"What was I to say?" He mutters. "I have scarce few recollections of you that do not pertain to the bagne, or you running, or me chasing."

He doesn't seem to recognize his lack of hostility towards Valjean. Valjean raises his eyebrows and settles in the chair Cosette has vacated.

"Would you like to hear a story of my life?" He offers, only half-joking, because Javert seems in what is, for him, a downright affable mood. Maybe it's guilt that tempers his vitriol. Maybe that's just the oddly calming affect Cosette seems to have on people.

Javert scoffs and leans back on his pillows.

"I am so bored," he says in a non-answer typical for the man, "I might find myself turning to a book to occupy myself. I have not had this much free time since..." 

Javert trails off, brow furrowed, evidently trying to recall the last time he had taken something that could resemble a break. Valjean waits for a moment, then takes it upon himself to fill the silence.

"There was a priest." Valjean says, settling his hands in his lap, voice deceptively smooth for all that he's begun to shake inside. "A priest who came upon a convict sleeping outside his parish, and he welcomed the man into his church, and gave him food and drink, and bade him rest his weary body in God's house, and the convict-" here, he chokes, before swallowing and continuing, "the convict made off with his silver in the midst of the night."

Javert has raised his head from the pillows behind him and is watching him with intent eyes. His expression is unreadable. He must know Valjean is speaking of the Bishop of Digne.

"And when the law came down upon the lawbreaker," he continues, unable to meet Javert's gaze and unable to look away, "the priest told the men that he had gifted the convict with his most precious silver, and pressed a pair of silver candlesticks into his weathered palms, and bade him take those as well, and use their value to become a good man-"

Valjean draws in a shuddering breath. He has not told this story to anyone- who could he tell? Who knew of his many deceptions, his many lives, his many names-

"So," Javert says, "this priest lied to lawmen."

Valjean looks at him.

"I should have him arrested for obstruction of the law," Javert says, and there's a beat of silence, then a wheezing, high-pitched noise escapes Valjean's lungs, because he's right, and this is Javert's odd way of making jokes. Valjean bends at the waist and buries his head in his hands as laughter wracks his body. He does not know if he is laughing from humor or relief at finally lifting the great weight of a secret from his chest.

~~~~~~

That is one of Javert's good days. Most of the time, the man oscillates between ill temper and what can almost be thought of good humor, at least for the truncheon of a man who has haunted the streets of Paris for years. A few days after that, Javert withdraws from Valjean again, refusing food and drink and muttering to himself whenever Valjean approaches, vexing himself whenever Valjean is even in the room so much that they do not see each other for three days, and as much as Cosette is ecstatic to finally, suddenly have more people in her life than her father- she seems to get along well with the Pontmercys, Valjean observes with only a little tug of longing in his heart for days past- he can tell that she is beginning to tire of having two patients on two separate estates.

Before he knows it, two-and-a-half months have passed. 

"How long will it take for my injuries to be fully healed?" Javert asks brusquely, intense gaze directed full-force at the doctor, who seems unimpressed. 

The doctor shrugs.

"Monsieur," he begins, "you have broken not only your femur but your collarbone and multiple others- any one of those would be enough to put an Inspector on desk duty for weeks, but collectively..." He sighs. "There is only so much healing the human body can do at a time, and multiple injuries of this magnitude severely compounds the time it takes."

Javert grumbles. 

"I have been," he spits, "shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten bloody and sustained all manner of other injuries, and yet it is the one I had wished to never recover from that plagues me the longest-"

"Javert." Valjean says, a warning tone in his voice. Javert's eyes snap to him, defiant, but he stops speaking, and the doctor shakes his head.

"M. Fauchelevent?" He murmurs, turning away from Javert. "Could I speak to you in private for a moment?"

He allows the doctor to gather his things and pull him through the bedchamber door, shutting it behind him.

"What is it?" Valjean asks.

The doctor looks at him with a sad, knowing look in his eyes.

"Monsieur," he says, "if I am hearing correctly, the former Inspector's injuries are... self-inflicted."

Valjean purses his lips, presses them together until they turn white.

"Yes," he answers shortly.

The doctor crosses his arms.

"If you truly wish for the saving of his life to not be in vain," he says, "M. Fauchelevent, I must suggest you watch him for symptoms of mental unrest- purposeful further aggravation of his wounds, things of that nature. I do not say this lightly, but-"

Valjean interrupts him.

"I will ensure," he says, "that M. Javert does not impede his own treatment."

The doctor inclines his head and retreats.

Valjean hovers at the door, uncertain, before opening it. He takes his seat beside Javert's bedside. Silence hangs heavy between them. It's odd, Valjean thinks, that Javert is the person currently in his life who he has known the longest- the longest out of any of them! Cosette, the dearest of his life, who knows nothing of his life before Fantine; Toussaint, who knows even less than that. Javert has followed him from Toulon, to M-sur-Mer, chased him to the convent, to Paris, to the Gorbeau house and the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, to the barricades and the Pontmercys- they have rarely stood on the same side of the river, but Javert is one familiar figure on the embankments. Javert knows every name he has ever gone by. He has even given Javert the gift of that never-told tale of the convict on the doorstep of a bishop.

"It's funny," he says softly, "that we have known each other for so long, but these past odd months have been the most talking we have done in decades."

Javert snorts.

"You are," he picks his words carefully, "sentimental, and a fool, and a ninny who places too much emphasis on connections."

Silence falls again.

"I fail to understand why your sentimentality should extend to me," Javert continues after a minute, as though the silence was natural. He watches Valjean out of the corner of his eye.

Valjean smiles. It seems to shake Javert, because the man turns his whole gaze to him in surprise, then looks quickly away, twisting his fingers in the bedsheets.

"I told you, Inspector," Valjean says, still smiling, "I did not know it was you on that parapet, if that explanation is easier for you to comprehend."

Javert seems to struggle for words, then gives up.

"And if you had known?" He asks, looking directly at Valjean again, and there's something different about how his gaze sits on Valjean's features- not as a superior, as he had thought in M-sur-Mer, nor as a lower-than-human life form, like in the bagne. He looks at Valjean as though he is... a fellow man.

It is something Valjean could get used to.

"I would not change my actions, Javert," he replies, hesitating before reaching out to press Javert's bare arm, lightly. "A human life is a human life."

Javert has the oddest expression on his face. Valjean cannot comprehend it.

~~~~~~

Soon enough, Javert is well enough to hobble around the room with heavy assistance from a crutch. He scowls and mutters and spits at anyone who gets in his way, and his usually-colored face is pale and shining with perspiration, but he manages. The doctor returns, and pronounces half the injuries healed. Javert refuses to take painkillers of the opiate type.

"Would you like to step out into the garden?" Valjean offers, and Javert glowers at him. The apartment on the Rue de l'Homme-Armé is up several flights of stairs, and Javert takes it upon himself to train his body on them, managing one flight one week, two the next, until he can feel the cobble of the road beneath his feet and the grimy air on his cheek, the unfettered sunlight on his shoulders- it is more welcome than he will admit.

"It's a shame that our residence on the Rue Plumet was compromised," Valjean murmurs from where he's come silently to stand at his side. "We had a small garden to ourselves, Cosette and I."

Javert frowns.

"Compromised?" He asks, turning to look at Valjean, who blinks at him.

"I thought it was your men who had found us, Inspector," he says, and Javert furrows his brows, readjusts his grip on the handle of the crutch.

"If I had known your whereabouts, I would not have allowed you to get away," he mutters. "Rue Plumet... there had been reports of activity of the Patron-Minette in that area one night, a while ago, which was odd because that area had been so out of their patch..." 

He dissolves into muttering again, and Valjean pulls at his shirtsleeves. Patron-Minette...

"Thénardier," Javert growls suddenly. "Those scoundrels. They ran with the Patron-Minette, aliased as the Jondrettes..."

Valjean glances at the man next to him, standing in the doorway of the apartment building, sun gracing the crown of his head and warming the silver-shot colors of his hair, and smiles.

"Come now, Javert," he says, "you mustn't let thought of criminals distract you from the fine weather."

Javert purses his lips. Valjean notices his whiskers have quite overgrown their boundaries, like a hedge that needs trimming, and resolves to bring the man a razor at some point.

Soon enough, Javert tires of standing, and they make their way back up the stairs. Javert collapses in bed, still weak, healing bones aching, and Valjean puts the teapot on. Cosette and Toussaint are, again, at the Pontmercy residence, and Valjean allows himself a twist of sadness, because soon Cosette will be married and in love and living at the great big house of Marius Pontmercy- he casts the thought out of his head and pours tea into two cups, makes a plate of the plain biscuits he favors, and brings it to Javert's room.

Now that Javert is no longer confined to bed rest, he is markedly more personable- or, in Javert's case, not quite personable, but less likely to snap when he is asked something.

"Tea," Valjean says by way of introduction, setting the cups down on the bedside table.

Javert makes a noise. He picks up the cup after a moment and takes a sip, grimacing at the boiling temperature.

"How strange this is," Javert mutters. "I attempt to walk, and you tell me of your garden in your other residence, and I sit in bed, and you bring me tea." There's no harshness in his voice, but it's tight in a way Valjean cannot describe.

Valjean says nothing.

"What do I do?" Javert mumbles, seemingly not noticing Valjean's observation of him. "The police department thinks I am dead, Valjean. What do I do?"

"They-" Valjean says, before remembering he had never actually inquired as to what preparations Javert had made for his death.

"I left a letter of resignation, along with... a different type of letter for M. Gisquet," Javert wraps his hands around the cup, "along with my spare uniform in my desk at the station, and enough money for a few months rent with my landlady, and given the rest of my savings to the Church, for lack of a better place to give-" He chokes, and Valjean eyes the teacup in his shaking hand with concern.

"Inspector Javert is a dead man," Valjean says in a kind of quiet awe, and he realizes he does not know Javert's first name.

Javert laughs shortly. It is a terribly soundless sound. It is not, however, devoid of hope, as Valjean feared it may be.

"Did I not say that, the first weeks you brought me here?" He mutters. "I am a dead man because of you, Jean Valjean, in more ways than one."

"You are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish," Valjean says. Javert turns away from him.


	3. part iii: a sacred promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: every longfic needs an unneccesarily sensual, strangely drawn out straight-razor shaving scene.... right?
> 
> THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS i suck at replying but i read every one and i love you all!

"Fate truly shines down on you, Jean Valjean." Javert exhales, leaning on the doorframe of the apartment building, watching the street. "How is it possible that we made the same leap, yet I am riddled with these injuries, and you come away without so much as a fracture?"

Valjean chuckles.

"I am well accustomed to jumping into waters from great heights," he says, and both men individually recall Valjean's escape from the Orion. "There is a certain method one must go about using."

"And of course you know it," Javert snorts. They have become- almost amicable. Valjean's hand steadies on Javert's elbow. Carts rumble past on the cobble. Javert has been standing too long, and finds himself suddenly fatigued. He makes a movement to turn back into the house, and Valjean follows silently, watching his slow steps up the stairs.

Cosette is at the Pontmercy residence again, and Toussaint again with her- Valjean puts a kettle on for tea, and Javert collapses back into bed. The rickety flights of stairs still exhaust him. Valjean finds himself wondering if the house on the Rue Plumet would be better for a recovering man, but remembers the Thénardiers are still at large. He sighs.

He finds himself glad for Javert's company. If the other man were not here, the apartment would feel... too empty. Even if Javert holds no real fondness for him, Valjean is not ready to go back to that lonely solitude just yet.

He shakes himself out of it.

"Right," he says, as he bears a tray with a teapot and two cups into the bedroom, "Javert, did you want to shave? It's only your whiskers are a bit..." 

He makes a vague gesture on his own face. Javert snorts.

"I have only one good arm, Valjean," he says, "and my fingers tremble so- I do not think holding a razor to my own face would be a wise decision."

"I can do it," Valjean offers unthinkingly, pouring the tea. Javert stiffens.

He remembers the last time he had held a blade to Javert, and is about to retract his offer, fearing he's made Javert retreat into his shell again, but Javert scoffs, something on his face almost like embarrassment, and turns his head.

"Well! I suppose," he agrees, seeming slightly flustered, and Valjean looks at him in surprise. "If you had me trussed like a turkey and a knife in your hand and didn't kill me then, when I asked you to, it would be foolish to think you would do so now."

Valjean wonders if this is the beginning of building a semblance of trust. He makes a noise of agreement.

"After tea, then." He says. Javert's shaking fingers take the teacup he's offered, and he steadies them by holding his arm close to his chest.

~~~~~~

After tea.

Javert draws tea out longer than it needs to, strictly speaking, but within the hour he is back out of bed and sitting in a chair, a shallow basin of lukewarm water on the small table beside him, Valjean sitting in another chair across from him, close enough so their knees brush- he sits stiffly, fingers clutched in his lap, and Valjean strops the straight blade easily on a leather stock with practiced, fluid motions. Javert's eyes follow the glint of the metal and the movements of Valjean's hands.

"Hold still," Valjean murmurs, before taking a tin of foaming agent, uncapping it and gathering some into the damp foaming brush before working it into a lather on his hand and applying it in slow, circular movements to Javert's face. Javert is very still under his hands. He tilts Javert's head upward, the man following his directive unconsciously. He makes the first scrape with the blade.

"Would you like it," Valjean says quietly, "in the same fashion you have always worn it?"  
Javert seems under a spell- he doesn't register he's been addressed until a few moments after the words leave Valjean's mouth, and he almost jerks in surprise when he seems to finally hear them. It's a good thing he doesn't, because Valjean's razor is still moving gently against his neck, against the grain of the scruff, stripping away the stubble that's grown through and leaving shockingly soft skin behind. 

Unthinkingly, Valjean runs his thumb along the skin where his razor has just cleared a path. He can feel Javert's jawline under his fingers. It's still slightly damp from the foam. Javert shivers under him, and when he looks back into the other man's face, he sees his eyes are focused on him, dark and unreadable.

Javert swallows. The movement of his adam's apple is conspicuous in this proximity. Valjean wants to touch it, but he stills his fingers.

"That- ah. That is fine." He says, hoarsely, and Valjean has almost forgotten what his question was- something about how short Javert would prefer it cut, so he shakes off this strange spell and continues in his task, wiping the blade on a rag draped over Javert's shoulder after every swipe. Javert is unnaturally still. Valjean's fingers do not tremble.

When it is finished, Valjean hands Javert a damp cloth to wipe away any traces of foam remaining in his neatened whiskers, and occupies himself with cleaning his razor and snapping it back into its case, capping the tin of foaming agent and removing the towel from Javert's shoulder- this seems to dispel some of the strange tension between them, and Valjean starts to think about what they ought to eat for lunch.

~~~~~~

Valjean buys Javert a cane.

It is not something he plans to do. He is strolling down one of the many side streets of Paris, returning from dispensing alms with only a handful of coins left in his pocket, which he had planned on saving for any stray gamin who happened to cross his path, when something in a dingy shop window catches his eye. It is a fine but simple cane- burnished dark wood tapering down to a point that Valjean can almost hear rapping against the cobble in time with Javert's steps, a gleaming copper knob set at its wider end, patterned around with a seamless pattern, like an endless chain of the branches of a fleur-de-lis, that brings to mind the embroidered collar of Javert's old dress uniform- Valjean stops and stares.

Before he knows it, he is pushing open the door to the tiny shop. He barely reads the sign- something about consigned goods- before stepping over the threshold and making a beeline for the display window.

"Welcome, Monsieur!" The shopkeep calls after him, looking up. "Can I help you?"

Valjean takes the cane with three fingers from the window display. It is a satisfying weight, in fine condition, no large scratches or blotches in the varnish, and an image suddenly flashes in his mind- Javert, fully healed, decked in a coat of fine midnight blue wool, a rimmed hat of the same color perched upon his silvering hair, copper buttons instead of silver glinting in the light, this cane held loosely at his side- Valjean almost jerks backwards at the sudden vividness of the mental picture. Warm metal and splashes of color- a far cry from the fearsome devil of Paris, Inspector Javert, decked in black wool and silver stitchings and a midnight cane that every criminal in the city feared might come down on their heads.

It is not an unappealing thought. Valjean makes up his mind. He digs the rest of the change from the pocket of his sweeping overcoat and hands it to the shopkeep in exchange for the cane. 

Perhaps he will not present it to Javert just yet. It may be too soon for such an olive branch. He needs more time to allow his feelings about the man to settle.

~~~~~~

"Is something the matter?" Cosette asks, brow furrowed. "Papa, you've hardly touched your food."

"Ah," Valjean hastens to take a spoonful of soup into his mouth, fingers twitching around the pewter utensil. "It is nothing. Only a stray thought."

Javert eyes him. He looks both different and the same clean-shaven- he looks like Javert as Valjean has known him, not as Javert as Valjean has slowly come to know him. With the unruly scruff shaved from his face, Javert looks more the part of the Inspector than he has in several months. Valjean feels his hackles rising, unbidden. He has become accustomed to the softness of Javert unshaven. The sharp, clean line of his jaw is a reminder of the lawman Javert has been.

Cosette pinches her lips. Dinner passes in a silence that is not quite uncomfortable, but not entirely tensionless, broken only by the scrape of metal against metal. 

~~~~~~

That night, Valjean prays, as always. He kneels at the foot of his bed, places his Bible before him, inclines his head and sets his thoughts to the path of God. The light from the candle on the bedside dresser flickers against his white hair, warming it as much as it can. 

He prays.

Oh, God, he thinks, who art in Heaven, and he thinks of Cosette, and the fits and spurts of her growth into womanhood, and of Fantine, for there is not a day he has lived since the time of M-sur-Mer that he has not prayed for that woman, now in the embrace of God, and of Marius Pontmercy, now sloughing slowly towards a full recovery, who seems to bring his precious daughter endless joy- he prays for the people dear to him and for those he has known, and allows the feeling that wells in him to be communicated to the Heavens.

He thinks of Javert. That stubborn, steadfast man. He has hardly thought of Javert before these few months without the buzzing undercurrent of fear that hums in his veins every day he dons the name of Ultime Fauchlevant- even in M-sur-Mer, the times he had not been able to avoid the Inspector had been fraught with tension and apprehension. To see Javert bow his head and refer to himself as Valjean's- no, Madeleine's- inferior? It had lended a dimension to the man Valjean had not seen before, punched a two-dimensional caricature of a Toulon guard into a three-dimensional man with blood pumping in his veins and a tremble in his stone heart with as much piercing, stunning clarity as a sunbeam breaking through a faceted diamond. 

Valjean, eyes still closed, draws a shuddering breath. He dislikes looking back on the past, but it seems, in this case, it is necessary in order to set his feelings for Javert to rights. He feels his chest in turmoil. 

He still does not know Javert's first name. For the longest time, it seemed as though the man's given name had been Guard, or Officer, or Inspector. Valjean wonders if this is the first step towards seeing Javert as nothing but a man.

~~~~~~

"Why did you save me?" Javert asks, when Valjean pushes open the door to the bedchamber. Valjean twists his lips wryly and shuts the door behind him. 

"Have you not tired of that question by now?" Valjean says. "Then again, you never seemed to tire of the chase."

Javert is silent.

"I think," he mutters, "I may be weary now."

Valjean says nothing. He settles in the chair by Javert's bedside but does not open the book he has brought. Books are safe but cold companions. Books cannot reply to his statements with rolling sarcasm, or grumble when he offers tea, or lean heavily on his arm struggling back up the stairs. He finds that solitude chafes after so many years of living with a constant companion. He does not want to return to that heartache just yet, as selfish at it is.

"Is-" Javert begins again, starts to falter. "Is the girl at the boy's bedside again?"

He still seems uncertain- and what novel an idea that is! Javert, uncertain!- regarding Cosette. Valjean inclines his head. He runs his fingers along the spine of the book in his lap, missing how Javert's eyes track the brush of white hair over his forehead, an indescribable look flickering across his face. 

"Yes," Valjean says, "Marius seems to be doing better- he stays awake for almost the whole day, and the infection is all but gone from his body. She helps him walk."

"His very own Valjean," Javert murmurs, sounding almost amused. "A healing angel to brace the arm of the injured sinner who had walked to his own death."

"I am no angel," Valjean chuckles, imagining it. An angel covered in scars of the galley. Surely such a thing must be blasphemy. He cannot help thinking Javert would make a more suitable angel- or, avenging angel, rather. The long arm of God's wrath who rained fire on his enemies. 

It is a good thing that the God Valjean has devoted himself to is a merciful one.

~~~~~~

There's a light, rapping knock on the door, and Valjean stiffens at his seat in the small dining room of the apartment. Cosette and Toussaint are not due back for another hour at least, if their previous visits to the residence Pontmercy are any measure to go by- he goes hesitantly to the door. It could be important. If he hadn't opened the door on the night the barricades had risen, he would not have known anything of the boy Marius's fate, and he would surely be dead with a rosette pinned to his blood-soaked lapel.

Valjean cracks the door open.

"Excuse me, monsieur." The man says. The first thing Valjean registers of him is his light, cultured accent- an aristocrat, then, made evident by the straight-back set of his shoulders. The blue coat embroidered with silver over a white vest and trousers make Valjean's hackles rise, but now that the man has spoken directly to him, it would be rude to shut the door- he pulls it open a fraction more instead, pulls on his shirtcuffs in a habit of making sure his scars are concealed, looks this strange man directly in the eyes.

"Can I help you?" He asks, voice intentionally level.

The gentleman doffs his hat. His eyes flick marginally to the room over Valjean's shoulder, but return to meet his gaze.

"Have you seen a man- you may know him, he is a bit infamous in this area of Paris- an inspector by the name of Javert?" The man asks. Valjean's jaw ticks. "There is a small reward out for any information on his whereabouts, placed by me, and I was informed that a gamin had sighted him in the doorway to this building, accompanied by a white-haired man of your age, Monsieur-"

There's a clattering from inside the apartment.

"Monsieur Chabouillet?" Javert gapes from the kitchen doorway. He shuffles up to the door. Valjean has no choice but to let the door swing open further, baring his apartment to this man- Chabouillet's- clearly observant eye. "What are you doing here?"

"Javert," Chabouillet sighs, in what is apparent relief. "Inspector, the Prefet thought you dead! Your hat was found discarded on one of the parapets lining the Seine, good God, man, what happened?"

Javert shifts uncomfortably. He leans more heavily on the crutch in his hand. Valjean eyes him warily. It would do no good to have Javert collapse here.

"Monsieur." He begins, but Valjean interrupts.

"The Inspector," he says, praying he is unrecognizable enough from the days of his mayor's chain and gray hair, for his picture must have been in every paper and on every policeman's watch when he had fled M-sur-Mer, "is an old acquaintance of mine- he was injured at the barricades when working undercover, or so he told me, and sustained a head wound among others after he was dispatched to monitor the Seine- I found him heavily injured and disoriented, and have been looking after his recovery."

The story feels stilted and weak, like a mongoose on stilts that will topple if Chabouillet so much as prods at it. Valjean swallows.

Chabouillet looks at him.

"Well!" He says, and Valjean cannot discern the measure of suspicion in the man's voice. A politician within the ranks of the Prefecture, then, and a good one, to boot. "Well, I am glad, Javert, and admittedly a bit surprised that you have someone who has been looking after you. You scared the devil out of us, you know, with disappearing with naught but that strange letter to M. Gisquet and a half-baked resignation, rambling something about being unfit for duty."

Javert's lips are pressed together. They are pale and bloodless. Chabouillet seems to notice.

"But," he says, inclining his head slightly, "who am I to keep an injured man from his rest! Javert, I will inform the Prefet that I have found you alive, at least- contact me when you are healthy again and wish to return to duty. In the meanwhile, I shall submit an application for extended leave in your place due to grievous injury."

Chabouillet smiles with all his teeth. It is probably meant to be reassuring. Valjean finds it unnerving. He has met many a politician during his day as Mayor. Chabouillet does not seem quite so slippery, but there is something that makes it difficult for Valjean to trust him, all the same. At least his relief at finding Javert alive seems genuine.

"Thank you for your generosity, on the Inspector's behalf, Monsieur...?" Chabouillet trails off, turning to Valjean, a note of inquiry in his bright eyes. Valjean forces himself to keep from tensing up. Policemen can smell fear.

"Fauchlevent." Valjean slips an unassuming smile on his face. "Good to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Chabouillet."

Chabouillet bows slightly, returns the polite formality, claps Javert lightly on the shoulder and turns back to the stairs- when he disappears down them, Valjean lets go of a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Javert turns back to the kitchen, crutch thumping with every step. Valjean closes the front door again.

There is a moment of silence as they settle at the kitchen table. Valjean puts on a teapot, and pulls a tin of biscuits from the cupboard.

"M. Chabouillet," Javert begins, answering Valjean's unasked question, leaning his crutch on the table's edge and settling himself in a chair, "is- was- my sponsor at the Prefecture. He is the one who had me given the rank of Inspector in M-sur-Mer, and the one who had me transferred from there to Paris, retaining my rank, after you were exposed and fled the town."

Valjean, keeping one eye on the pot, sits down.

"Do you think- do you think he recognized me?" Valjean asks.

"You should not have answered the door, you fool," Javert scoffs, before settling again. "But M. Chabouillet has always been glad to leave the heavier investigative work to me. And you look very different than you did in M-sur-Mer. I hardly think you need to worry."

Valjean smiles.

"You recognized me," he points out. "I looked very different as mayor than the convict in Toulon as well."

A silence descends on them. They have never spoken directly of Toulon. Javert does not meet his eyes.

"Your-" he begins, and stops, and begins again. "Your strength is not something one easily forgets. So long as you refrain from picking up ox-carts in view of M. Chabouillet, I think you will be fine."

He does look up at Valjean now, almost embarrassed at being caught at something- Valjean does not know what. It hardly matters. Javert seems to be feeling amicable. He has even accepted the breaching of the topic of their past in stride. Valjean smiles again.

"Yes, I suppose so." He says. "And it is hardly as if everyone has as intimate knowledge of me as you do, Javert."

Javert chokes. He turns a bit red. Valjean does not think about his words too much.

"Will you return to police duty?" Valjean asks, waiting for the water to boil.

"Ah-" Javert says, restraining himself, his flush receding. "I think I had made my point quite clear, Valjean. I am no longer fit to uphold the law."

Valjean looks over him with trepidation. 

"Because I spared your life at the barricade?" Javert makes to protest, but Valjean, in a move like a ghostly reminisce of a mayor of a long-away town who had brought prosperity to the area by introducing a new method of making jet-black beads, raises a hand to silence him. Javert falls silent, though he seems to struggle with himself for a moment.

Valjean glances at the kettle before fixing Javert with a look.

"Because you assisted my deliverance of that revolutionary boy to his household?" Valjean says. "Because you have not clapped me in irons? Because you- Javert, you, a man of few virtues but fewer faults- have dared to consider yourself as an individual, with a separate sense of right and wrong, truth and justice, than that of the cold chains of the law?"

Javert stares at him for so long it begins to become uncomfortable. The water boils, and Valjean pours tea for them.

"I only mean," Valjean says, more quietly, "that though I may not agree with the finer details of some of the scruples you have upheld previously, I respect you for your adherence to your duty."

And Javert- Javert blinks, shifts in his seat, tangles his fingers together upon the tabletop before extracting them from each other to grip the teacup Valjean slides across the table to him.

"Well!" He says, finally, seeming at a loss for words.

And he frowns. There is no anger in it. He seems, if anything, perplexed. Valjean wonders what he could have said to provoke such a response, but when that flush once again creeps up Javert's neck, through his whiskers, seeps through to stain his cheeks in a display of humanity that still surprises Valjean, he sets aside this line of thought that seems to present Javert with such turmoil to drink his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I... originally thought this to be 4 chapters, but i might end up extending it, just because i'm enjoying writing it and there are some plot avenues opening up :0 i've extended it to 6 for the time being~

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: comments are the best form of tips, besides actual tips.
> 
> [tumblr](http://kimishitaatsushi.tumblr.com/)   
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